Jeff Buckley

Madam George



Down on cyprus avenue with a child-like vision leaping into view. the clicking clacking of the high-heeled shoes, ford and fitzroy; madam george. marching with the soldierboy behind he’s much older now with hat on, drinking wine and the smell of sweet perfume comes drifting thru in the cool night breeze like shalimar and then your self control lets go and suddenly you’re up against the bathroom door. the hallway lights are finely getting dim you’re in the front row touching him and outside they’re making all the stops the kinds out in the streets collecting bottle tops, going for cigarettes and matches to the shops, happy talking, madam george and that’s when you fall, oh, oh, that’s when you fall and you fall into a trance sitting on a sofa playing games of chance with your folded arms in history books you glance into the eyes of madam george and you think you’ve found your bag, you’re getting weaker and your knees begin to sag and in the corner playing dominoes in drag, the one and only madam george and outside the frosty window raps she says “be cool, I think that it’s the cops” stands up, drops everything she gots, it’s not easy now you know now you know you gotta go catch a train from dublin up to sandy row, in the wind, rain & fog & slush & snow keep on going on say good-bye we know you’re pretty far out and all the little boys comin’ round they got gold cigarette lighters in their pockets walking away from it all, so cool. that’s when you fall.